Is it Coincidence?
by aragonite
Summary: Reconstructed lost chapter in SECONDARY STAIN. It was a while before I could bring myself to re-construct this. Wish I could do the lost Mycroft chapter, but that doesn't seem possible. COMPLETE.


_Inspired by three events. 1) My Annotated Sherlock Holmes came in the mail and 2) KCS' birthday and 3) rampaging insomnia mixed with the fact that a huge chunk of my Secondary Stain lost a great Holmes-scene at the end. Shudders...this is my painful re-construction, which of course isn't as good as the version that was lost...it's always the fish that gets away!  
_

"_Well, Watson, what do you make of this?" asked Holmes, after a long pause._

"_It is an amazing coincidence."_

"_A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent end during the very hours when we know that the drama was being enacted. The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No figure could express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events are connected—must be connected. It is for us to find the connection."_

_--The Adventure of the Second Stain_

-

It was just enough of a fire to make the room comfortable this early in the morning. Holmes found himself appreciating the fine line between temperature and atmosphere; he was tired as always after a conclusion of a case and slightly discontented. It was not an uncommon occurrence. Indeed, it happened more often than not, and without something to keep his mind and hands equally busy…

…221B Baker Street suffered.

Watson had risen to commit to his usual schedule perhaps a bit earlier than usual; he knew the 'lay of the land' so to speak, and did not care to be around in case another V.R. ventilated the wall. There was also the fact that if Holmes did proceed to decorate the walls in his absence, Mrs. Hudson would only charge Holmes for the extra costs in the rent. As far as lodgers go, Watson was the darling of the two. A peace-maker at heart, he wisely preferred it that way.

Holmes' work was his life, but in excess he could confess it cloyed and swelled to the tiresome excess of more effort than was required. All cases, he had held, were simple when viewed from the proper height.

With this last case…he had simply underestimated the height.

A rustling sounded outside the door; his grey eyes sharpened as he reached for his black clay pipe.

"Hello, Holmes." Wind-striped from the cold wind, Watson entered the sitting-room just enough to shrug the door shut after him. Something of the chill city was left outside by that brisk movement. He sighed in his relief, and felt that emotion grow to see Holmes had picked up _that_ particular pipe off his collection.

It was a clay pipe, of what tint and age it was impossible to tell after so much steady use, shone with oil and gleamed with the smoothing of being held in those long fingers—it was so ugly and commonplace it was no surprise he used it in his disguises along the waterfront or less-savoury places. Watson was glad to see it. The pipe was an even older, more reliable friend than _he_ was, and to use it meant his mind was calm and soothed.

It was perhaps an unintentional irony that Holmes always chose his most aesthetic pipe, the cherrywood, when he was in his worst moods. More than once, Watson wondered if he ever lost his black clay, would he be forced to resort to the hideous cherrywood, and thus contaminate his temperament to something more difficult.

His friend's gaze sharpened in surprise to see how he was laden with nearly twelve bundles of carefully-wrapped packages, variously sized and sorted.

"Watson, I believe you _swore_ to me that you would not fall victim to the charity drive at St. Bart's this year…"

"It isn't St. Bart's." Watson blurted, perhaps just a little too quickly. He grimaced, for that made him sound guilty as the proverbial cat in the dairy. "But it is a charity."

Holmes felt his eyebrow quirk upwards, a swift, mobile expression that somehow made his entire body read like a single emotion. "I must commend Commissionaire Peterson. He can be most persuasive when the mood strikes him."

Watson nearly dropped his packages. "How could you tell?"

His astonishment was completely gratifying. Holmes felt his smile grow as the doctor peered at his bundles as if some clue was forthcoming.

"Holmes, I see nothing that would reveal the fact that I had just joined a fund for the commissionaires."

"Nor were they in themselves." Holmes briefly indulged in his enjoyment of Watson's surprise. His friend had the potential of becoming a world-weary veteran--even now. A simple, delightful surprise was a good thing to see, and he had to confess, he enjoyed finding opportunities to surprise him. "As a military man, you are naturally attracted to Peterson's organisation. You approve of its foundation, and you carry sympathy for their punctilious methods. Finally, when it comes to Mondays, one can rely on your matutinal conversations with the good commissionaire at the news-stand before he goes to his regular duties."

Holmes waved the stem of the dreadful pipe like a maestro's baton—_and a maestro he was_, Watson thought.

"You vowed to me in the sternest of demeanors and a vocabulary to match only last night that you would quit the St. Bartholomew's drive so long as they insisted on their plan to ignore the indigent children of criminals. Even were I not in possession of an excellent memory, I daresay I would recall your oath due to the unusual volume you employed while swearing said oath—if that is the consequence of too much company around Lestrade, I must insist you lower the frequency of your encounters with him. He can only be a contaminating influence. Now. Peterson is the only person in your regimented schedule that you would have met." Holmes paused, just a beat, and moved in for the killing strike: "Besides, his particular style of knot-tying is rather unique. Almost like the man himself: square and spare and military."

Watson sank to his settee and laughed until he hurt. Packages rolled to the carpet at his feet. "Bravo!"

Holmes chuckled and went back to attending his cold pipe. "So, then, how correct am I?"

"Quite completely." Watson shook his head, still smiling, as he arranged his packages. "I was asked to safeguard these until they were ready to be distributed."

"Nothing edible, I trust."

Watson chuckled easily. "No. They will be part of a blind raffle. Peterson has learned that secrecy builds the anticipation."

"Very true." Holmes had finally found his matches, and leaned forward to strike one on the fireplace-frame. It left a scratch that Mrs. Hudson was bound to notice before night-fall.

Watson sighed, a smile still playing on his lips. "You accuse me of aggrandizing your talents," he scolded faintly. "But I put it to you, I do not."

"Tsk." Holmes again leveled the pipe. "Then what are we to do with you, my dear fellow?"

"Me?" Watson's blink was almost gratifying. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean, my good fellow, that if you were to truly do me justice, you would spare me no pity in your writings. They are, you must admit, politic in their subtle favourtism." Holmes employed his least-used sound, something between a Gallic _zut_ and an Englishman's _tsk_. The combined effect was the briefest of nonverbal scoldings. "For example, our latest case." He held the older man's eye meaningfully. "Which you have rather succinctly called the Adventure of the Second Stain."

Watson countered with his most infuriating weapon: His lack of comprehension.

Holmes sighed through his nose. _How does he ever do it?_ One had to marvel at Watson's ability to live in the present, for it was not out any sense of innocence or stupidity. If anything, it was that frustrating ability to focus on his chosen subjects so whole-heartedly that he would forget there were other, more pressing affairs to attend to. As Holmes possessed that ability to a far greater degree (he wouldn't be able to ignore meals, sleep or other comforts otherwise), it was still frustrating to live in close proximity with someone else who employed that trick of single-mindedness.

"Watson," Holmes spoke as patiently as he knew how—patience did exist within his breast, but it was admittedly a short-lived creature, frail and prone to swift demise. "You were _correct_ when you referred to the murder of Eduardo Lucas and the theft of the document as 'coincidence.'" Again, he held Watson's gaze with his piercing grey eyes. "A logician takes no more pride in his victories than he does shame in his successes."

Watson made a thoughtful sound.

Holmes shook his head. And people thought he was infuriating?

"I suppose I hadn't thought about it, Holmes." Watson admitted without the least bit of shame.

Holmes missed a draw of his pipe. "Pray tell, my dear fellow, how you 'missed' such a thing?"

The actual Watson was rather more observant than the way he wrote himself. From a tactical standpoint, Holmes did understand that no one found anything quite as dull as a man who wrote about himself. Still. The end result made Watson a rather worshipful _attaché_, and anyone who had heard him scold Holmes for leaving a used syringe in the butter-dish the same day he accidentally left his cigars in the bottom of the coal-scuttle (to be forgotten until Mrs. Hudson's tweeny used the scuttle as it was meant), would disagree with the picture.

Watson, during Holmes' private reflections, was still in his own personal wilderness of musings. He finally shrugged with his better shoulder, dismissing the whole matter. "I came to the conclusion that it was not fully a coincidence after all, Holmes."

"And what would lead you to such a conclusion?"

Watson satisfied himself that Peterson's project was safe, and rose to help himself to the still warm teapot at the table. "What was it you said, Holmes, about Roylott?"

The detective's lightning-swift mind needed no more than a second. "Violence does indeed, turn upon the violent."

"Exactly. Mr. Lucas was playing with fire. How could he escape the consequences of his actions indefinitely?"

Holmes tilted his head to one side, and swiftly blew out a single circle. "It does happen, Watson. More often than one might think."

"I don't believe that." Watson was wearing his most stubborn expression, which meant that none of his friend's glittering intelligentsia would impress him. "The problem with vengeance, and consequence, and the concept of nemesis…is that _we_ want to be able to recognize it. It took us long enough to realize the truth of the matter; that his mad wife mistook his blackmailing of Lady Hilda as an illicit affair—well, if you dissect the situation, Holmes, it was an affair. A most scurrilous one and a shameless example."

"You are saying then, that Lucas' own actions turned upon himself and caused his own death."

"You cannot convince me that being a spy is a _safe_ past-time, Holmes." Watson was indignant at the very thought.

"No—no." Holmes quickly waved that off. "Not at all. "It is not any such thing. I am afraid that of all the spies I know in London—living and dead—they are united in their tastes for a heady lifestyle, excitement, and the sort of money that is required for the first two." Holmes pursed his lean mouth thoughtfully. "You see Lucas as the bridge to the circumstances between his death and the stolen papers."

"I do. Perhaps that is an old-fashioned view, but it does make sense to me."

Holmes' lip turned up at one end—his version of a philosophical humour. "Phrased such, I must agree." He admitted. "So then. To my original topic. Will you place that in your writings?"

Watson did not roll his eyes; he merely looked tired at him. "After all I did to disguise everyone's identity, not to mention the truly awkward and embarrassing points of the case?" He snorted lightly. "Certainly, Holmes. When I feel free to write everything from the beginning again."


End file.
